The noodle stall at Exit 3 was always slow in the mornings, even on days like this.
Steam rose in thin threads from the old aluminum pot. The owner, a man with no name on his apron and no interest in conversation, stirred with quiet dedication, ignoring the world beyond the flickering blue flame under his cart.
His only customer at this hour was a second-year college student named Rei, hunched on a bench with a half-eaten bowl of miso ramen between her knees and a lit cigarette between her fingers. Her dark hair was frizzy from sleep, and one of her earbuds had slipped out, trailing a tinny melody as she scrolled absentmindedly through her phone.
The city murmured in the background. Somewhere beyond the station walls, traffic hummed. Buses hissed at every stoplight. The buzz of streetlights hadn't quite died yet, as if they couldn't decide whether it was still night or already morning.
A few feet from Rei's bench, a maintenance worker in a dull gray uniform swept leaves into a half-full dustpan. She wore headphones too, bobbing her head softly to something upbeat. Occasionally, she'd glance up toward the rift detectors mounted high on the street poles. No lights blinking. No alarms. Just the usual, steady hum.
That changed around 6:42 a.m.
The noodle man stopped stirring.
Steam twisted in odd patterns, dancing left instead of up.
Rei blinked, then looked up from her phone.
A breeze passed—not cold, but oddly sour. It carried with it the faint scent of metal, burnt hair, and wet stone.
The maintenance worker froze mid-sweep, one earbud falling loose. She turned toward the sound just in time to see a ripple crawl across the cracked pavement in front of Exit 3.
It was subtle. Barely there. Like someone had dragged a wet finger across glass.
Then the ripple split open.
Not fast. Not explosive. Just… quiet.
Like someone unzipping a backpack underwater.
From the tear, a boy fell out.
The boy didn't move.
He lay curled in the fetal position, half-naked in shredded clothes, his skin streaked with grime and ash. Steam hissed from the edges of the still-closing rift behind him, casting him briefly in silhouette.
Rei's bowl clattered to the pavement.
"Oi!"
She stood too fast and nearly tripped over her own feet, rushing toward the boy just as the noodle vendor stepped out from behind his cart with a quiet grunt. The maintenance worker had already hit the emergency alert on her walkie-talkie.
No one screamed. No one ran.
By now, the city was used to dungeons opening in strange places.
But not like this.
Not without warning.
Not with someone coming back.
When the medics arrived, Rei had already pulled off her hoodie and draped it over the boy's shoulders. He hadn't said a word. Just lay there, blinking slowly, eyes unfocused.
One of the emergency responders crouched beside him with careful hands. "Do you know your name?"
The boy didn't answer.
He turned his head slightly, as if the sound itself needed translating.
A few more questions followed. Each one slower, simpler.
Then, just as the responder was about to wave for sedation clearance, the boy's lips parted.
"Kai...to."
The responder leaned in. "Kaito?"
A small nod.
"Okay. That's good. You're safe now, Kaito. We're going to get you checked out, alright?"
No reaction.
At Minami General Hospital, Room 11-B, the lights were too bright.
Kaito sat on a plastic cot with his knees drawn up, a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His arm, now cleaned, was bandaged except for a patch just above the wrist. There, a faint blue glow pulsed beneath the skin—like ink trapped under glass.
The nurses hadn't touched it. The scanner couldn't read it.
A younger nurse, Mizuki, peeked through the cracked door with a clipboard in her hands.
"Vitals are stable," she whispered to the attending doctor. "But… he's not talking anymore. Just sits and stares. Doesn't respond unless prompted."
The doctor—late 40s, sharp face, tired eyes—clicked her pen and looked through the small window into the room. "Memory loss, maybe? Shock?"
"Could be. But—" Mizuki hesitated. "There's something else. He doesn't act like someone who forgot. More like someone who never had anything to forget in the first place."
The doctor didn't respond to that.
Meanwhile, across town, a girl was running.
Her name was Aiko. Seventeen. Tired. Her school uniform shirt was wrinkled from sleep, and she wore mismatched socks. Her phone was still clutched in her hand, fingers trembling around the cracked screen.
The message had been short:
"Kaito is alive. Hospital: Minami General."
She didn't even remember grabbing her bag.
She just ran.
When she arrived, breathless and pale, Mizuki met her in the waiting area.
"You're his sister?"
Aiko nodded too fast.
"Come with me."
Room 11-B was too quiet.
Aiko stepped in slowly, her fingers curled into her sleeves.
Kaito was still sitting there, curled up in the blanket, staring at nothing.
She stared at him for a long time before saying anything.
Then: "You're not even going to say hi?"
He turned. His eyes were… strange.
Not dead. Not cold.
Just empty.
"Aiko," he said, voice flat.
It wasn't a question.
She walked closer. Sat down on the edge of the bed. "You've been gone six days. Everyone thought you were dead. Mom hasn't slept. I—I haven't…"
Kaito tilted his head slightly.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Not like he meant it. Like he was reading it off a card.
She stared at him.
"You really don't remember anything?"
He hesitated.
"No."
Later, Mizuki peeked into the room again.
Aiko had fallen asleep, head resting on the side of the bed.
Kaito sat still, watching the rain begin to fall against the window.
His fingers twitched.
The blue marks on his arm glowed softly.
Under the skin, something stirred. Not pain. Not power.
Just a feeling.
Something missing.
Something hollow.